


O Father, Where Art Thou

by moosetracks754



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Angst, Disease, Euthanasia, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3037283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosetracks754/pseuds/moosetracks754
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pyrrhoneuritis- noun; \pi\roh\noo\rye\tis\: A nerve disease of the 23rd century brought to Earth from the newly established colony on Epsilon Four. Only affecting Terrans, the disease is both extremely painful and prohibits motor function in later stages; and until a cool autumn day in 2264, fatal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Father, Where Art Thou

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This is my first fic, so feedback would be wonderful! Also, I made it an AU because McCoy didn't use an injection in canon, he unplugged the life support systems... I just felt an injection was more believable and powerful. PLEASE LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

**Stardate 6405.17 at 0400 hours**  

Doctor Leonard McCoy was chancing a moment of rest in the comfort of his leather armchair when he received the urgent call from Earth. Three hours earlier, the UCC Enterprise NC-1701A and her juvenile crew before the five year mission were bombarded by Klingon warships. Long after the battle, and they were still sending droves to sickbay. Captain James T. Kirk requested McCoy stay, but there was no arguing with the Georgian and so let his friend take the leave of absence he needed.

McCoy arrived at the St. Louis Mississippi Bay Medical Facility two weeks later to find David McCoy lying on a hospital bed in Room 43-127B. Machines whirred gently, as the monitors above McCoy’s father beeped “stable”. Weak with pain from the Acute Pyrrhoneuritis, his father turned to Leonard and smiled softly. McCoy did not smile back.  

“I told you not to go” he cringed inwardly at the emotion in his voice.

“Leonard, you know I had to. The colony… they needed a doctor.”

“They couldn’t’ve found someone younger? Hell, the _Enterprise_ was close enough, I’d have been dropped off faster than the flip of a dime.” 

“It wasn’t a threat then, you know that. They had to have my team,” his voice rasped.

“You got yourself caught in a whirlwind, Dad. Since Ma, you’d been acting like this. Almost like you gotta death wish” David McCoy winced, and turned to look out at the Mississippi skyline. The monitors beeped steadily through the silence.

“Cut the hero bullshit, Dad. I get it you had to get away, and now look at you.  Ma knew it wouldn’t be good for you, and I couldn’t agree more. She was the best doctor you ever had, you know?” he shook his head, “Dad, this? This is gonna take a lotta time to figure. You just hang on, alright? If Ma was the first, I’m the second.” 

David McCoy continued to look out the window, but it didn’t matter because Leonard was not looking for a response. Instead, he shook his head softly, removing his worn leather jacket and settling himself in the chair beside the bed. Taking out his PADD, he began pouring over the research. He knew little medically concerning Acute Pyrrhoneuritis, but knew enough: it was only native to Epsilon Four, it was painful, it was incurable – and it was slowly sucking the will from his father.

* * *

 

Weeks cascaded into months and Leonard McCoy was a doctor, damn it. Better yet, he was a surgeon, who specialized in neuroscience. His discoveries in 2253 developing a surgical procedure of the human brain dealing with neural damage launched his career. If medicine was an art, Doctor Leonard McCoy was a savant at neurology. So what was the damn problem? Every xenobiology medical textbook screamed at him to find the stupid cure because it was right in front of him. Why he couldn’t he see it? 

“If only you stayed, like I warned you. It was too dangerous the risks were too high, and at your age-“ Leonard muttered under his breath buried in his articles believing his father to be asleep. It was mid-day, and the sandwich he purchased for lunch was added to the stack of uneaten food left in the trash for maintenance. 

“The colony needed me” came the trembling reply that startled him, one he hoped he’d never hear. He paused.

“I need you” he grabbed his father’s hand, voice shaken with fatigue and grief. But David McCoy’s expression fell as the narcotics eased the pain. McCoy turned back to his research, fifth cup of coffee in hand, muttering madly over the PADD. Each day he came closer to grasping it, his father’s condition worsened. Once or twice Joanna called to see how her Grandpappy was, and every time Leonard would chuckle and with a light southern drawl say “he’s fine, but he’s sleepin’ right now, sweetheart.” And he’d wish her goodbye, and turn away from the screen to his dying father and the stale room that was draining them both.

* * *

**Stardate 6407.20**

It was a cold summer night. Leonard McCoy wandered the halls of the hospital, frequenting the laboratory he was granted access to as a CMO of Starfleet. The nurse found him on Level 4A, in Laboratory CC-188. Hunched over a microscope, Dr. McCoy muttered under his breath, papers scattered, untouched glass of whiskey next to his hand.

"Dr. McCoy, you’re needed in Room 43-127B."   

Leonard was already out the door, leaving behind his research and a young nurse in a tense laboratory. The room was dimly lit for the patient’s comfort. The breeze from the open window cooled the warm buzz from the machinery that hummed around the bio-bed. Leonard felt chills along his spine, despite closing the ajar window.

"Cold?" he asked, as he pulled the blankets tighter around the small frame. He settled into his chair, looking over his father absently. Vitals more stable than yesterday. But the nerve-endings in his hand were far more engorged than the other day, so he’d have to increase the dosage of anticytoglobin, and- 

"Son." He froze, realizing he’d been speaking out loud. He chanced a look at his father’s face, and shook his head. A cold hand met his, and he refused more violently,

"Dad I-I can’t." 

"Please."

"I told you already before, damn it! I won’t do it!"

"Leonard," Firmer now, grip tightening around his fingers, "Please."

"No, Dad, I’m so close. It’s right there I can feel it this time, I've got a whole stack of new data to analyze, and-"

"Leonard.” His father’s hand rested patiently in his palms. It was too cold to hold anymore, so McCoy ran his fingers through his unwashed, unkempt hair. The silence of indecision sat heavy on the doctor’s chest, as he paced the room. He stared quietly into his father's eyes, the vibrant blue dull as the disease ate away at his optical nerve. He knew it was hopeless. His father's condition was irreversible. Anything below the lumbar plexus was completely immobile, and every nerve leading to the brachial was inflammed. His lower intestines were swollen, and three days prior David McCoy suffered through internal bleeding as one of his kidneys clocked out from the immense pressure. David McCoy was in pain, and was suffering, and it made Leonard nauseated to think exactly how much. He couldn't look at his father, this idol that lay in bed dying before him. He turned to look at the blank entertainment screen mounted on the wall which provided a more comforting sight. 

Finally, it came quietly between the panted, drawn-out breaths: "It’s time".

McCoy sighed, letting his eyes close hoping it’d keep his morality at bay. He opened them to see his reflection in the tile floor looking back at him, curious which choice he was about to make. He stared at the floor until he could no longer tell the difference between the floor and the walls, as his body trembled with salty grief. A sob echoed in the room. Followed by another. Tears trailed down his cheeks, Leonard remained a stone carving of anguish in the middle of the room. Ten minutes later, he left the room returning with the small canister. 

Leonard McCoy wasn't a small man. His physique was as much a McCoy tradition as their baked beans, and McCoy was proud of that. Looking at his father's weak figure, sent a rush of emotion he was doing everything he possibly could to quell. His once hearty father was now frail with agony. His hands quickly loaded the hypo with the canister of clear liquid that existed only to CMO’s and certain people with the right PhD. 

The liquid was so quietly picturesque that it looked like water in the stream behind his old home in Atlanta after rainfall. Hell, maybe it _was_ just water. Maybe it was a serum that, once ejected, would throw his father’s equilibrium out of balance, and nursing and doctors alike would charge into the room to see what he’d almost done. They’d take away his medical license, his promotion, he’d be discharged from Starfleet and have to start an illegal practice.

The thought comforted him, as he pushed the sleeve of David McCoy’s hospital gown back, gently pressing the hypo against the paper skin. Surgeon hands only shake when they have faced defeat, and Leonard’s body was an earthquake. 

"Dad-"

"Thank you, Leonard." 

Tears gathered around the corners of his father’s mouth as he injected the euthanasia. In the distance, a hypo clattered against the ground. Doctor McCoy’s fingers were stiff as he laced them with his father’s, whose lips were upturned gently as the pain began to fade. 

David McCoy passed quietly and Leonard McCoy flatlined.  

Outside, the stars blinked over the Mississippi skyline brighter than Leonard had ever seen them. He wondered where the Enterprise was and how she was holding up without him. He wanted to bring his father to her someday, while she was docked at a spaceport or something. David McCoy never cared for Starfleet, but he had been proud of his son’s promotion. The happiness in his father’s eyes when he relayed the news  shimmered through the poor quality of the transmission, showing McCoy his delight. It was a shine he hadn’t seen twinkle like that since he surprised Joanna for her third birthday.

Unable to stand, he collapsed in the chair. His hands shook with such vigor, he couldn’t control them. He couldn’t control his hands. With a shout, he doubled over with grief and a new overwhelming emotion: guilt. “I’m sorry” he cried to no one. He finally commed for nursing, who found him sobbing against the side of his father's bed.

* * *

**Stardate 6408.15**

“McCoy,” came the voice of Kirk, distressed.

“Little busy right now,” Doctor McCoy replied, carefully bandaging the broken ribs of an ensign who had been thrown 30 feet after their meeting with the Denka people of 1627 Pegasi III.

“Bones.”

McCoy let out a rattled sigh. He had only been back aboard the ship for a week and was already itching for a shoreleave. After his father died, he spent days cleaning out the dust from his father's old house in Georgia. Returning home was usually a golden opportunity in the eyes of Leonard McCoy, but the day of his father's funeral he found himself looking to the night sky more eagerly than he'd admit. He had visited Joanna at her Aunt Rita's, who was upset to hear the passing of her grandpappy. She cried only because it was sad, and McCoy smiled for the first time in months at the four year old. Jocelyn was apparently in the Beta quadrant with her Orion finance. He only learned this because she had sent him a message expressing her condolences. He never replied.

“Stay out of trouble, ya hear me?” he said, swatting the nameless ensign in the back of the head. He turned to Kirk. “What can I do you for, Jim?”

“Have you gotten a chance to read the update from Starfleet?”

“Well Jim,” McCoy said, “I would if you stopped sending me your damn Ensigns battered and bruised all the time. When did it come in?”

“1200, halfway through Alpha.” McCoy looked at the analog clock on the wall. Alpha shift was over in three minutes. He rolled his eyes. He had a shit ton of paperwork to catch up on.

“Well it better be damn important then.” He finally replied, taking the PADD from his outstretched captain’s hands.

He read the message. He blinked, and read it again. Heart rate elevated, he looked up at Jim.

“Is this… Jim?” He said absent-mindedly, pulling up the scientific paper. He scanned the abstract, and the color drained from his face.

“Bones, wait-“ Jim called after the McCoy who all but threw the PADD back at his commanding officer and fled into his office. The door shut behind him and he prayed if Jim knew what was best for him, he’d be on his way. Sitting in his armchair, he raised the temperature by three degrees. But he couldn’t erase the fear that chilled against his skin like frost.

 **NOTIFICATION** , the computer blinked. He opened it, and found the document Jim had shown him before. It wasn’t some sick joke, or some random link from those social media websites Jim was fond of sending him. The official Starfleet logo stamped in the corner, the title of the article screamed at him:

 

**STARFLEET OFFICE OF HEALTH, DISESAE, AND MEDICINES**

**DEPARTMENT OF MEDICAL EXPLORATION, UNIT 555-89D**

**STARDATE:**  6408.03

_TREATMENT FOR NERVE PATHOSIS ACCUTE PYRRHONEURITIS FROM PLANET EPSILON FOUR, SS EPSILON HURO UNDERWAY_

PATIENTS CURED OF AILMENTS. SIGNS OF HEALTH STABILIZING. **PATIENTS ADMINISTERED** : 54.

 **AUTHORS** : ANTHONY GRENGILD _MD, OD, DXBS_ , AND KR’NIALI _GP, ScD, DPH, DXBS_

 

For a moment, Doctor McCoy hesitated to breathe. He sat stone still in his office unable to move, as the clamor from medical bay hummed in the background. But... how? If this is true, then what did they do that he didn't think of in the months he spent at his father's bedside? He spent every damn day researching a cure, and he was a damn good doctor, so what did he do wrong? In a frenzy, he began scrolling wildly, skimming the paper until he reached the conclusion

_"...After detailed analysis we have finally observed the relationship between the ps3 proteins in the plant _Albizia I, or "_ Blackweed Root", and the pf7-hh76 chemical toxins from the Pyrrhoneuritis virus. To conclude, the proteins build upon the tissue at the basal ganglia and expand as neurolytic "blocks" are formed without aid of surgical procedure. The article "Lifesigns: Surgical Procedure in Ensuring Life Guarantee When Performing On Neural Damage' by Doctor Leonard McCoy refers to this anomaly and was truly helpful in applying the correct structure that allowed for the growth proteins and development of the cure. Once proteins stabilized, the inflammation stopped as seen through patients D3-44276 and D6-20984; however, the virus was still overwhelming. When both proteins and anesthetic from the root of A-I were applied, the virus began to subside... as far as we understand, this appears the most effective, and only, known vaccination for Acute Pyrrhoneuritis with a 99% success rate among all patients administered." [ _  
_](http://plants.ifas.ufl.edu/node/30)_

Leonard read the last sentence again to make sure it was true. By concentrating the proteins of the native plant, they had regenerated muscle growth and combated the virus- a simple virus- that had taken his father's life. No, he had. He had taken his father's life. The virus had caused David McCoy pain, but it hadn't killed him- that was Leonard, his son. His only son had killed him. He tried calm himself:  _It w_ _as hopeless at the time. You tried everything you could. He was ready._ He chanted it over in his head failing to convince himself that the guilt that was swallowing him was not his responsibility. But they had used his paper from years ago to aid in their research. He not only contributed to the cure, but could have found it. If only he was more thorough. If only he had gone to Epsilon Four himself to study the biology there, he wouldn't be sitting here in his desk knowing his father was dead and buried because he was too incompetent to be a doctor and a son. Yes, if only he'd been a better son. 

Sinking into grief, he reached for the only relief he knew. Two hours later, Captain Kirk found his CMO and best friend unconscious in his armchair, drooling alcohol from every pore, two empty bottles of whiskey soiling the floor. 

 


End file.
